Bloody Hell
by JEM82
Summary: A late night call turns the graveyard shift’s night upside down and Greg discovers that there is more to the job than just processing evidence the hard way.
1. Prologue

1**Disclaimer**: If I owned anything but my ideas, I wouldn't have to worry about taking out student loans every semester. So, please, no one sue me for borrowing someone else's characters and returning them safely before their curfew.

**Special Thanks**: To lj user"imaginaryfields" for her beta. It made this story just that much better.

**Special Request**: Please, please, please leave a comment telling my what you thought, even if you hated it. Also, if there is something that you would like to see happen, write that down, too, as I may make your wish come true. :o)

**BLOODY HELL**

**Prologue**

Sandy Lewis drove herself into work after making sure she had feed her cat and left a note for her boyfriend. Traffic on the strip was no worse than it was every other Wednesday. She thought about how she wished the tourist season would end before she caught herself, remembering that in Las Vegas, Nevada, it was _always_ tourism season.

Arriving at work fifteen minutes early, Sandy pulled her maroon Honda Civic into a parking space in the rear of the dispatch office which was Adjoined to the Las Vegas Police Department's headquarters. This was where she spent eleven P.M. until eight A.M. every Monday through Friday.

The cheerful woman glided through the double doors, taking a moment to greet her co-workers as she walked down the long hallway to the locker room. Storing her purse and lunch sack in a metal cubicle, she made her way to the call center.

"Good news, it's a slow night!" called out one of the girls as Sandy entered.

"Don't jinx it," she said. "There's no such thing in Vegas. Having said that, my shift is gonna get a ten car pile-up with fatalities on I-15."

Taking a seat in front of her station, Sandy heard another dispatcher reply, "So what? At least it won't be on my shift."

Comments like this grated on the dispatcher's nerves. A ten-year veteran dispatcher of 911 call centers, three of which were in Vegas, Sandy still could not understand how some of her co-workers had no regard for the lives that they were tasked to help. Many would crack jokes about callers who would do nothing but scream over the phone while others tried to determine who had gotten the best...uh, worst...call that day.

But Sandy Lewis was different. It was the main reason why she had been hired for the job. She loved people. She loved helping. Sandy cherished every interaction she had with a caller; she stayed on lines and talked people through first aid and CPR. She crooned to crying children while they were waiting for an ambulance to arrive to save Mommy. She had even helped deliver six babies. No one would think it by looking at the 5'3", mousy brown-haired woman, but she was the best damned dispatcher in Clark County.

Plopping down in front of her station, Sandy said a quick little prayer. _Please protect the citizens of Las Vegas tonight._ It was a little something she did before putting her headset on every night. Not always a spiritual person by nature, Sandy wasn't sure if he request to God ever did any good, but she figured that it couldn't hurt, either.

The first few hours of her shift were rather routine; traffic accidents, a B&E, and a loose dog that had attacked someone's cat. Around two o'clock, that all changed.

"911, what is your emergency?" Sandy said into the phone.

"Ohmygod...I think...I...he's not...help..." The caller was a young female. Sandy gauged her to be no more than 20 years old.

"What isn't he? Is he not breathing?"

"No...blood..." The caller was choking on her own words. "Please..."

"Where are you calling from?" Sandy asked, knowing that she at least needed to get _some_ information from the caller. "Are you at home?"

"No," the girl whispered. "Rampart, 716. Hurry..."

Before Sandy could say anything more, the caller hung up. _So much for my uneventful evening_, she thought. _Only in Vegas._

A few keystrokes later and Sandy was able to confirm that the call had indeed come from the Rampart Hotel. She was unable to figure out what room, but it was a start.

"I need any ALS emergency near the Rampart to report for a possible 421. Caller unclear. Room 716," Sandy chirped into her earpiece.

"This is 46," a male voice responded. "I'm two blocks away. Sanchez and I will take it."

"Thanks, Hank," Sandy responded. "Caller was unclear about possible injury. I asked if the victim was breathing and all she said was 'no' and 'blood.'"

"OK, I'll report back as soon as I've got something. Out."

Sandy leaned back in her chair and sighed. She hated these kinds of calls. She knew that she was sending two paramedics on a goose chase. Both men would arrive at the Rampart Hotel with little more than the idea that someone might possibly be bleeding to death in room 716. They'd have to haul half of the ambulance up to the room just to make sure that they had the right equipment at their disposal.

_But this is why _I'm_ a dispatcher and _they're_ paramedics_, she silently reminded herself. Guys like Hank and Mario didn't mind running into the battlefield with blindfolds on. They loved the thrill, even got off on it. But Sandy would take her boring old computer station over excitement in the field any day.

Sitting back for a moment, Sandy couldn't help but wonder what the medics would find as she logged the call into the system

The flashing lights of the Rampart Hotel greeted the two tired paramedics. "Geez, we haven't been here in a while," Mario Sanchez said, hopping out of the back of the rig.

Hank Peddigrew grabbed a large duffel bag and shoved it into the waiting arms of his partner. "Nothing's changed since last time. Just remember that we're here to possibly save a life, not hit the blackjack tables." Grabbing another bag, he slammed the back doors of the ambulance shut and started making his way to the entrance.

"Yea, yea. I just hope this isn't a crank call." Mario ran a hand over his recently buzzed scalp. The last two calls that he and Hank had responded to were UTLs, "unable to locate." In other words, prank calls made to the emergency dispatch center. _But what those little bastards don't understand_, he thought, _is that we can get their name, address, and phone number from their call and then the cops can charge their asses for making a false police report._ All of a sudden, Mario felt happy again.

The two men approached the front desk, receiving stares all the while from hotel patrons. "Can I help you gentlemen?" the desk clerk asked, somewhat alarmed.

"We received a call ten minutes ago that there may be someone in distress in room 716. We need to get up there immediately," Hank told the women. She seemed to lose all color after hearing "distress."

"We didn't receive any calls like that down here, sir. If you'd like to wait a minute, I can check for you..."

Mario stepped out from behind Hank and slapped his open palm on the counter loudly. "Ma'am, we don't have time to wait. 911 dispatch got a call and we need to respond." The desk clerk started to shake, her nerves wracked by the situation. "Now you can either get someone who can escort us, _quickly_, to room 716, or we can run off, find it on our own, break the door down, then explain to your supervisor that you refused to help us." Mario smiled sweetly at the trembling clerk who reached for her walkie-talkie, calling for a guard to come at once.

A few minutes later, Carl Jones, the head of Rampart's night shift security, was escorting them to an emergency elevator. Hank looked over at Mario and grinned. "You always did have a way with the ladies." Chuckling quietly, the paramedics followed the beefy security chief to the destination.

But it didn't look like they would be needing Carl to open the room for them. Room 716's door was wide open. Glancing quickly at the lock before entering, Hank saw that it was intact, which he had learned from a past girlfriend was indicative of no forced entry. Who ever had left this door open had come from the inside of the room and, most likely, had a key card.

The hotel room was a three-room suite, including a living area, full-service kitchenette, and master bedroom with an adjoining bathroom. There was no activity in either of the first two rooms. "Action must be in the bedroom," Mario observed. Hank nodded in agreement.

The security guard stepped forward. Carl cleared his weapon from its holster and motioned to the paramedics. "You two aren't carrying, so let me clear it first."

He was running out of the suite before he had even set foot in the bedroom. Hank and Mario could hear the poor man vomiting in the hallway. As the stepped closer to the bedroom's entrance, the smell of copper overpowered their nostrils. Slowly, each man peeked his head around the door frame to look inside the room.

Dropping their gear at their feet, Hank Peddigrew and Mario Sanchez took in what could definitely be called "a sight to be seen." Stepping back into the living area, Mario took a couple deep breaths while Hank removed his cell phone from his belt.

"Sandy? It's Hank...I wish it was a prank. We need homicide...and make sure they send Gil Grissom's team. This vic is gonna need the best of the best."


	2. Chapter 1

1**Disclaimer**: If I owned anything but my ideas, I wouldn't have to worry about taking out student loans every semester. So, please, no one sue me for borrowing someone else's characters and returning them safely before their curfew.

**Special Thanks**: To lj user"imaginaryfields" for her beta. She went above and beyond the call of duty on this one. Also to everyone from LJ and who reviewed.

**Special Request**: Please, please, please leave a comment telling my what you thought, even if you hated it. Also, if there is something that you would like to see happen, write that down, too, as I may make your wish come true. :o)

**Author's Note**: Yea, the chapter is short. There is only so much you can write about people meeting and gearing up to go to a scene. I promise that chapter 2 will not only be longer, but will contain the crime scene that everyone is anxiously awaiting!

**BLOODY HELL**

**Chapter 1**

Gil Grissom hadn't wanted to call his team in so early, but he was left little choice. After a startling call from Sandy Lewis, he had dialed up the paramedics to get their version. Thinking that the dispatcher was just overreacting, Gil wasn't prepared for what Hank Peddigrew had to say. There had been no overreacting; the situation was just _that_ bad.

The stocky man gave himself just enough time to shower and change into his usual garb, black polo shirt and dress slacks, before making a few calls to his team members. He made sure that Catherine and Sara would contact Nick, Warrick, and Greg before heading to the crime lab.

As everyone arrived, Grissom couldn't help but notice that something was not quite right with Greg. Not normally one to put his curiosity before the task at hand, Gil asked, "Greg? Is that blood on the front of your shirt?"

Puzzled, Greg looked down, signing in frustration. "Damn it! This is one of my favorite shirts. Now they've gone and ruined that, too."

Not understanding what he was taking about, Catherine said, "What happened?"

"Some drunk tourists decided it would be fun to see how small of a compact car they could make mine." Greg ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand up in the front.

"But don't you have a compact car? A VW Jetta?" Sara asked, remembering that she had complimented him on his car choice once before.

"Exactly," he said. "Only now, it's a tuna can."

"But you've, uh...have you been cleared for work?" Grissom asked. "You were examined and it's okay for you to be here, right?" He was upset that Greg had been in an accident, but he mind was still his conversations with Sandy and Hank over and over in his head.

Greg nodded. "Yeah, I'm cool. I just need to get a rental after shift."

"Well, I'm glad you're okay," Grissom replied, smiling briefly at the young man. Greg had annoyed him with his loud music and crazy antics when he had first started working as a DNA technician, but the lovable 29-year-old and grown on him. Gil was now proud to call him a member of his team.

Refocusing on the task at hand, Grissom began. "I'm sorry to have called you in so early, but this needs to be taken care of while the scene is still fresh and the press hasn't gotten hold of it."

"I got a call from Sandy in dispatch around noon. She received a 421 call and dispatched two paramedics to the Rampart Hotel. About twenty minutes later, she got a call back from the EMTs suggesting that this team be contacted and start processing the scene immediately."

"I called the paramedic on the scene, Hank Peddigrew." At this, Sara winced. She was still not quite over how Hank had used her to cheat on his girlfriend. Catherine, noticing her expression, gave the woman a smile, as if to say, "I'm here for you."

Grissom continued. "They were hoping that this would be a routine call. It's appears to be anything but," he sighed. "I don't have any specific details, but I do know that the scene involves multiple victims and a lot of blood. Today, this is the only crime scene in Vegas. I've already talked to Ecklie and asked for him to have a couple CSIs from days and swing to come in and take any cases that may arise tonight."

Hearing this, everyone was able to gauge just how serious this call was. Grissom never talked to Ecklie unless he was forced to, let alone ask the Assistant Director for any help.

"How many?" Sara chimed in.

"The body count is five."

Catherine waved a hand. "You said we need to process the scene while it's still _fresh_?"

Grissom nodded again. "I was told that blood pools found on the floor had barely begun to coagulate. The 911 call most likely came _before_ the last victim was killed."

"Take about cutting it close," Nick said.

The six criminalists stood and all but Greg and Gil moved toward the exit. Greg walked over to where his supervisor was standing. "Can I ask you something?"

Grissom gave his newest team member a half-smile. "You can always ask me anything, Greg."

Taking a deep breath, the former lab tech asked, "Just how much blood is 'a lot?'"

"Well, you probably won't be wanting to cook raw red meat anytime soon." Greg gulped. "Have you ever considers becoming a vegetarian?" On that note, Grissom exited the break room living Greg alone to muster up any and all of his courage.


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **If I owned anything but my ideas, I wouldn't have to worry about taking out student loans every semester. So, please, no one sue me for borrowing someone else's characters and returning them safely before their curfew.

**Special Thanks: **As always to Hedda for taking time out of her busy schedule to help me perfect my story.. Also to everyone from LJ and who reviewed.

**Special Request:** Please, please, please leave a comment telling my what you thought, even if you hated it. Also, if there is something that you would like to see happen, write that down, too, as I may make your wish come true. :o)

**Author's Note:** OK, this chapter has been a long time in the coming. Sorry! I'm in 2 summer school classes, searching for a job, and trying to write all at the same time. I promise to get on the ball and start writing more after this Thursday. :o)

**Bloody Hell**

**Chapter 2**

It took the criminalists almost thirty minutes to pack all of the gear they were going to need to process their new crime scene. Since it was obviously so fresh, they didn't want to waste time by having to return to the lab for additional equipment. By the time they finished, only two of the CSIs could fit in the vehicle. Catherine and Greg volunteered to transport the equipment while the others rode over together.

"Do you want me to drive?" Catherine asked Greg.

He ducked his head. "You mind?" Greg said, flashing the women a small grin. "I think I've had more than enough time behind the wheel today."

Catherine smiled, glad that she could raise the young man's spirits somewhat. "Of course not."

Exiting the parking lot, they moved in behind Grissom and the others. Catherine took the opportunity at a stoplight to glance over at Greg. The normally energetic 29-year-old was looking not-so-energetic today. He had the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes and a saddened expression clouded his face. There was more to his mood than just a car accident and Catherine knew he was hiding something.

"You know that you can talk to me, right?" she asked Greg.

He looked over at her and smiled briefly. "Yeah...I'm just...when I was thirteen, my best friend and his mother were killed in a car accident by a drunk driver." He let out a heavy sigh.

"And you're thinking about how lucky you are to be alive and wondering why he couldn't have been as lucky, too," Catherine stated.

Greg chuckled softly. "Boy, you're good. Woman's intuition?"

"And being a mother." Catherine reached over and gave Greg's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Life throws us curveballs, Greg. I had my divorce with Eddie and his death. Warrick has his gambling addiction. Nick's stared down the barrel of a gun twice. Your friend was killed." She placed her hand over his on his knee and giving it a comforting squeeze. "But the thing you always have to remember is that these things happen for a reason. They're what shape us into the people we are today."

Smiling, Greg looked over at Catherine. He placed his other hand atop hers. "Thanks, Cath. I really needed to hear that."

She returned the smile. "Anytime."

The entrance to the Rampart Hotel and Casino was congested with people both coming and going. The two Tahoes pulled in under the front awning and parked on the far side of the traffic. Exiting their vehicles, the scientists were retrieving their kits when a valet approached them.

"Welcome to the Rampart. May I park your vehicles for you?"

Grissom turned and looked at the young man as if he had three heads. "They are parked," he looked at the valet's name tag, "Robert."

Robert smiled and clasped his hand in front of him. "I understand that, sir, but where would you like them to be parked?"

Reaching for the ALS, he said, "Right where they are."

He was starting to say something else, but the valet was quieted by a man in a dark gray suit. The man straightened his tie and said, "I'm Andrew Wilson, the parking manager. Is there a problem here, sir?"

Gil let out an audible sigh of frustration, throwing a quick glance Nick's way. The Texan took the hint to step in. "No problem, sir. We're just retrieving our things."

"But you're in the middle of a very busy area and you're holding up other customers. Would you please allow us to park your vehicles?" The man made it sound more like a demand than a question.

Slamming shut the back of the Tahoes, the criminalists began to walk toward the entrance. "No thanks," Nick said, flashing his crime lab ID badge, "they're just fine where they are." He broke into a jog and caught up with everyone just as they were entering the lobby.

Captain Jim Brass was already waiting for them. His rumpled brown suit appeared as if he had slept in it. The look in his eyes told them that they, too, would be looking rather rumpled very soon.

"So glad you could join me," Brass smiled.

"Sorry, "Grissom muttered, "but the valet wanted to park our cars."

"Is that code for something?"

Rolling his eyes, Gil said, "Never mind. What are we looking at?"

Everyone started walking toward the elevators. "Oh, you're gonna love this. Body count is five...we think."

"You _think_?" Nick asked.

"Hey, if you can tell how many are there, we'd love for you to share," Brass said, watching the faces of his friends fall. "In the meantime, this is what we know. The room is registered to a family of six. I've got names and ages from the copies of the driver's licenses the hotel made." Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out several sheets of folded paper. "Allan and Linnea Griffith, 62 and 57; their oldest son Mark, 36, and his wife Bethany, 33; their youngest son Riley, 27; and their only daughter Avery, 16. We think Avery is the one missing."

"So much for my prime suspect theory," Sara said as they stepped into the elevator.

Pressing the button for the fourth floor, Brass said, "I'm having trouble believing _anyone_ could have done this."

"Do we have any other information," Grissom inquired.

"Yeah. It seems the Griffiths own some packaging and shipping business back east somewhere and it just recently took off. The guy at the front desk said the parents 'stunk of new money.' They were in town for some sort of family celebration for hitting it rich."

The door to the elevator opened and everyone exited. Brass led the way to room 416. "You know what they say. 'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas'."

Warrick let out a small laugh. "Including some people's lives."

The officer posted outside of the room stepped aside. Grasping the door knob, Brass said, "Don't say I didn't warn you." With that, he pushed the door open and the smell of death washed over them.

The hotel suit was as luxurious as any the CSIs had seen before. The doorway opened into what would have been equal to a great room. A horseshoe-shaped, black leather sofa was the centerpiece, flanked by two oak end tables holding authentic Tiffany lamps. A matching oak desk was stationed in the right corner of the room and set up as a small workstation. A computer, printer, and telephone/fax rested on its surface. An expansive entertainment system was located to the left of a 3-pane, panoramic window that allowed loungers to look out on the Vegas skyline. A kitchen with full amenities and an elegant dining room surrounded the entrance to the long hallway.

The brash scent of new copper pennies hung thick in the air.

"There's three bedrooms and two full baths down the hall," Brass said, gesturing toward the back of the suite. "First officer went back there, but that's it. All the action is up here."

"Who was first officer," Catherine asked, taking a step deeper into the carnage.

"Joe Metcalf."

Sara knelt in front of the foyer, examining the plush, beige carpet. "Well, at least we don't have to worry about the scene being tampered with. Metcalf knows what he's doing." Satisfied that there were no shoe impressions or trace evidence in the entranceway, she removed hospital socks from her kit and pulled them on. Then, she gingerly made her way next to Grissom.

"Yeah," Brass agreed. "Thank God for small favors 'cause you guys are gonna have enough trouble with the one."

"Sara, tell me what you see," Grissom asked his protégé.

Reluctantly, she stepped a few feet behind the couch. The smell grew stronger and caught her slightly off guard. Fighting back a brief wave of nausea, Sara took a few calm breaths through her mouth before answering. "Five DBs. The older couple, the parents, are on the sofa. Dad is sprawled out on his end, so, maybe he was taking a nap? Mom is sitting up. She has something in her lap." She stepped around to the side of the sofa. Here Sara had a better view of the second couple. "Son number one and daughter-in-law are entwined on the floor in front of the TV, maybe snuggling and watching a movie." Stepping back behind the sofa again, she made her way back toward the foyer for a closer look at the last victim. "Son number two is sitting at the desk, slumped over, and the computer is on." She moved back to where she stood before and smiled at Grissom. "Did I miss anything?"

"I don't know, did you?" Grissom turned to look back at the suite's entrance. There, Nick, Warrick and Greg remained standing, as if waiting for permission to enter. "You know, you can't process the scene from the doorway."

As Nick and Warrick picked up their kits and slowly entered, Catherine pulled on booties and latex gloves before stepping to where Sara had stood. "Yup, there are definitely bodies under all that blood," she murmured, shining her flashlight over the eldest victim. Phenolphthalein and luminol are going to be useless here."

"There won't be much from prints on or around the vics, either," Nick chimed in while gloving up.

Warrick followed suit. "I guess the best we can hope for is some transfer or maybe a bloody fingerprint somewhere."

Sara focused her attention back on Grissom. "You never told me if I missed anything."

"The clock." Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to face the doorway. There, Greg Sanders stood, clutching his crime scene kit so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were turning white. The man's face had taken on a gray pallor. The smell of oxidizing blood was making him feel as if he would be violently ill, but Greg knew that he wouldn't. He could only feel one thing right now: Shock.

He was shocked that someone could have such a reckless abandon for human life. Here lay five adults, murdered in the primes of their lives. They had been someone's family, friend, neighbor. Yet that did not stop someone from brutally butchering them in the privacy and comfort of their own hotel suite. _If this can happen to these people,_ Greg pondered,_ it could happen to anyone._

Greg at first didn't notice when Grissom made his way across the foyer to him. Placing a hand on the young man's shoulder, Gil looked into his eyes. "Are you going to be all right?"

"I'm fine," Greg swallowed hard. "It's just the smell and..." He allowed his silence to say what everyone was thinking. That this had been the worst crime scene he had ever set eyes on. "Sara missed the clock." Greg pointed to the desk where the youngest son was sat.

A small digital clock was perched on the corner of the desk, its red numbers flashing. "Digital clocks only flash a certain time like that after they've briefly lost power then came back on," Greg explained. "That's why I use a wind-up clock. Anyway, maybe son number two of the killer jarred the clock loose during the time the crime took place."

A smile snaked its way across the supervisor's face. "Excellent work, Greg." Facing the rest of the team, he continued. "If that's the case, we know something that the killer didn't want us to know. This wasn't some random crime. Those take place at night. Only someone who had planned a crime of this magnitude down to the last detail would even consider hitting during the day. According to this clock, sometime around two o'clock, entire family lost their lives."


End file.
